London Nights
by iimprobableone
Summary: When a murderer of long-forgotten myth returns to terrorize London, hysteria quickly rises. Spring-heeled Jack, or at lest an overly devout fan, has taken back his hunting ground. The murders only get more twisted, with a body turning up every night without fail. It would have been nothing out of the blue for Sherlock, if not for Molly being targeted. SHERLOLLY
1. Chapter 1

"Why was there a fence around the graveyard?"

Molly wasn't going to fall asleep. She was not going to fall asleep. This was a nice restaurant, she was wearing a nice dress, and she had taken ages doing her makeup, so she was definitely not going to fall unconscious headfirst into her pot-au-feu.

"I don't know," She replied, with a polite smile. "Why was there?"

"Because people were dying to get in!" Her date, Tom, chuckled, and Molly giggled too, although secretly, it was more a pity laugh than anything else. God, he was so boring. The bad jokes weren't even endearing or cute, just, well – bad. And she was saying (thinking) all of this in the nicest way possible.

Then again, it seemed that whenever anyone was half interesting, the other half was disinterested in her.

But she wasn't thinking about him. About that.

This was moving on. It was healthy.

"That was abysmal." Molly decided that Tom would never know that she wasn't just talking about the joke, but also their conversations in general, the wine, and when she had shouted Sherlock's name last night instead of his.

Oops.

Tom grinned. "You know you love my jokes, Molly."

She mentally sighed.

There was a moment where nothing was said between them, and the only thing filling the warm ambiance of the restaurant was the music and chatter from other tables.

She lifted her glass and took a sip of the very expensive red wine. It tasted like piss, but anything to get the taste of lies out of her mouth was fine by her. That was a little deep for Friday night at The Bistro, wasn't it?

But now she was thinking about it, she couldn't stop.

It wasn't normal to be thinking about someone else whilst on a fancy date with someone you were supposed to love, was it? Or maybe, it was. Maybe everyone was always thinking about someone else, and no one ever said anything because they thought they were alone in the matter.

Sherlock would probably never know it, or perhaps he did but didn't let on (he did that a lot more than he let on), but Molly actually wasn't that shy. It was him. It was that terribly handsome detective with the terribly good brain and the terrible manners that transformed her into a mouse in his presence.

It was as if whenever he came into contact with her, every rational thought seemed to fly out of the window, and she was replaced with nothing more than a husk of her former self.

"I got some anatomy students in the lab today." She told him, trying to forget about anything mildly exciting and drag herself back down to earth.

"Oh? What are they like?"

"Really enthusiastic, but a bit cocky." She laughed a little. "Although, I suppose that comes with the territory, really, doesn't it?"

"Well, I remember that when I was a student,-"

Tom kept gabbling, but all she could think about was Sherlock.

What a surpris- no, no. She liked Tom.

The taxi pulled up outside Molly's flat, Tom in tow. They were probably going to end up having sex, so that was… something. Definitely something.

"We should go there again." She made light conversation as he followed her up the stairs.

"Sure." Tom said, as she opened the door to the flat.

Flicking the light switch on, it was apparent that Toby was sound asleep on the couch, and raised one eyelid to give them both a disapproving, almost disdainful look, with one green eye, before closing it again, like a parent witnessing their teenage children get in late and stumble in drunk.

She cocked her head in confusion. "What's Toby doing out of the bedroom? He hates sleeping in the living room."

Tom shrugged. "Probably a cat thing. Nomads, and all that."

She blinked, and then looked away from the cat. "You're probably right."

"Hey, there's this great place in Soho that we could go to for lunch next weekend, it does these great little bun things, if you'd be interested in that."

"Little bun things? What's that supposed to mean?"

"Well, they're sort of like – cold in here, isn't it?" Now that he had said it, she noticed the draft rolling through out of the window, billowing the curtains inside softly.

Molly's brow creased. "Can't remember opening that…" Mentally shrugging, she walked over, and closed the window, briefly looking over the back alleyway, the cobbles shrouded in darkness. Something that looked to be a cat slinked across. "Got a mind like a sieve." She turned back to him. "Anyway, what were you saying?"

"They're like loaves of bread, but, uh, smaller."

"What?" Walking across the living room, going to the kitchen.

"Um, some of them have… raisins in them. They go well with butter."

"I feel like we're playing Pictionary sans the pictures." She remarked, opening the fridge to look for the-

The milk was gone. The milk that she had bought this morning.

Frowning deeper now, she looks round the kitchen, and finds the litre plastic bottle on the counter, the lid only half screwed on. Eyes narrowing, gaze lifting to the only now closed window, then to Toby. Her mind quickly pieced the three-piece jigsaw together.

"Tom," She hissed, beckoning him over to her.

A confused, slightly gormless expression appeared on his face as he did as was instructed. "What?"

Molly turned, tucking her curled hair behind her ears and opening the draw, producing a butcher's knife.

Tom's eyes widened. "What are you planning to do with that?"

"Someone's broken in, Tom."

"What?!"

"Stay calm. They could have left, but I think we caught them in the bedroom when we came in – they haven't taken anything. Have your phone handy, in case they are actually still in the flat."

He looked taken aback by this Molly, the one with a cool head in situations, throwing out orders and leading. "Y-yes."

Molly walked slower now, her pulse starting to quicken as she got closer to the door, the rectangular piece of wood now looking scarier than a mere door ever should.

The last few steps were taken with her heart in her mouth, grip tightening on the handle of the knife.

Three, two,-

She swung the door open quickly, and to her horror, there was the outline of a body underneath the white sheets of her bed in the dark.

Molly let out a whimper, quickly hitting the lights.

Her tongue was tied and she wasn't quite sure what to do, shouting 'get out' seemed a bit too obvious of a notion to have to actually put into words, and she had no real use for the knife, it was more for show than anything else.

Slowly, the body rose, like a vampire rising from its coffin.

She felt the blood drain from her.

"Ah, hello Molly." A sleep-roughened baritone.

A pang of shock hit her.

Tom gaped at the sight from behind her.

A topless Sherlock Holmes sat upright in her bed, hair ruffled and eyes groggy.

She had never been angrier and happier all in one simultaneous moment before.

"W-what…" She murmured, her voice suddenly lost. "What are you doing, Sherlock?"

"I _was_ sleeping." He informs her, scratching the side of his neck and yawning.

"Why did you break in?"

"Well, what else was I supposed to do?" He got out of bed, to reveal that the only thing clothing him was his black underwear. Molly's cheeks started to burn and she averted her  
gaze. "You should know better than to change the locks, Molly."

"That was so you wouldn't come in when I wasn't home."

"The flat's so much more agreeable like that, though." Sherlock comments, walking over to his trousers and pulling them on.

"Listen, mate," Tom's voice now. "You can't just break into her flat when it suits you." Molly cringed. "That's not on."

Sherlock snorted in response. "You use the word 'mate' a lot, Tom. It's a sign that you're overcompensating for your very middle-class existence." Tom's face fell.

"Sherlock!" She exclaimed, as the relaxed detective buttoned up his shirt, his fingers making light work of it even in post-sleep disorientation. "Can you just stop, please? Can you just stop being rude for one second?"

"I don't have an off-switch, Molly." His features were pulled into an annoyed expression. "It's insulting that you think I do, given my behaviour towards you over the years." He put his shoes on.

Disbelief was all she could really feel. She had had enough with worshiping him, letting him walk all over him like the floral doormat that she was, putting up with his backhanded insults.

"There's a reason I changed the locks, Sherlock. It's because I knew that you couldn't just give me back the keys I gave you without making a copy. But even that's not enough, is it? It's always your way. Always! What do you think would happen if this was reversed? If you came in to find that I had broken in and slept in your bed like some sort of twisted Goldilocks?"

"You make it seem as if I do this for anything else other than necessity." He wasn't affected by what she had said in the least, and it only made her angrier.

"For the love of God, could you, for one second of your life, think about-"

A blood-curdling scream cut her off.

Everyone's heads lifted, towards the window facing onto the back alley.

Three milliseconds, and then Sherlock sprang into action in true Consulting Detective fashion. A flash of motion he ran past the couple. Almost confused for a moment, Molly then turned and quickly followed him, only on Sherlock's heels, racing down the stairs and out the back door to the small communal garden, then out of the door of the outside wall, and they were both on the cobbles in the middle of two rows of terraced buildings. Tom followed them slower.

"Oh my God, Lucy, no, no, no, Lucy!" A woman, around forty, kneeling over a body in the darkness, just outside the diameter of the streetlight amber.

Sherlock and Molly paced over, him kneeling down to the body.

"Lucy, Lucy," The woman appeared inconsolable, rocking herself and shaking violently.

Sherlock went to turn the body over, as Molly told Tom to call the police.

His expression did not change or falter as he saw the girls face, streaks of blood running from her hairline and slipping into her open eyes, turning the whites of them red.

Molly didn't have to be a pathologist to know that she was dead. Her t-shirt was soaked crimson and stuck to her chest, her torso… her torso appeared almost ripped open, and it could easily look like that to the untrained eye, but after having seen so much death, for so many years, she knew that it was multiple stabbings, if not in the hundreds. It was terrible to know, but no bile rose in her throat. The colour didn't drain from her face and acid didn't form in her mouth.

Molly knelt down next to the sobbing woman, putting a gentle arm around her.

"How do you know her?" She asked her, softly.

"Mother." Molly winced. Locks of hair fell off Sherlock's face as he examined the body, or, Lucy. "Her body's still warm, I'd estimate in the last hour." He looks to Molly. "Your diagnosis?"

"I wasn't asking y-" Molly decided it was better not to argue, tentatively reaching out and pressing her numb fingertips to the skin of the girl's arm, covering a dusting of freckles. "The body drops around 2 Celsius an hour after death, it's cold and she's at thirty-six. I'd say a matter of minutes."

"Which means," Sherlock jumps up, looking around the alleyway. "The murderer can't have gone far."

As if on cue, the faint sound of a pebble hitting a wall rings out from an alleyway on the other side of the road. Sherlock takes off towards it, footsteps quick and heavy on the tarmac, and after a moment of gently removing herself from the mother, Molly turns to Tom.

"Stay with her, wait for the police."

Then she's running after him, worrying about what sort of altercation could take place.

Looking at the silhouette of him, it was clear that he wasn't looking straight ahead. Frowning, she followed his gaze, and her mouth fell open at what she saw.

A figure was running along the rooftops with an inhuman grace about its almost spidery movements, taking a gap in the building's in its stride and easily leaping across. She was entranced in frightened awe, blinding running to keep up with whatever it was, stumbling once but catching herself with a hand on the ground.

Molly and Sherlock were side by side now, sprinting through the central London backstreets with such concentration that not a thought was spared for each other.

Reaching a building covered in tarpaulin kept down in the breeze by loose bricks and rickety looking scaffolding, the figure promptly dropped into a hole in the roof of it.

Sherlock wasted no time in climbing up onto the first level of scaffolding, Molly quickly following his lead. They made their way up to the third level quickly, lactic acid burning in their thighs.

Easing himself through a glass-less window, it was suddenly clear that the building had run into misuse. Shards of glass bottles littered the floor among leaves and wrappers.  
Footsteps could be heard from upstairs. Sherlock followed it, tearing through the room and up the wooden stairs.

Molly went to follow, but in a muscle-memory filled excitement her foot just missed one of the steps. Her leg grazed down onto the wood, and it wouldn't have been that big of an issue if not for the nail protruding from the side, and with this she gained a substantial cut to the side of her thigh.

Not responding to the sensation of blood suddenly pulsing out onto her skin she perseveres.

Catching up with him, it was clear that the detective had turned into exactly that – the purest form of himself, as if he were on fire, feverishly scouring the dark room, circling. She could practically hear the seamless cogs whirring in his mind, and she could only wonder what he was seeing, that she couldn't.

There was nothing in the room. Only darkness. A pigeon had made a nest in one of the grotty corners, now looking from him to her with an absent twinkle in its beady eyes.

"No, no, no," He muttered through heavy breathing, voice barely above a sigh. "No!"

"Where-" She managed out of quick breathing, "Where did he go?"

"The way he came in." This only seemed to irritate him further. "Idiot!" He amplified this with two hands in his hair as he paced.

An unusual occurrence, someone tricking Sherlock. But now they would be long gone, and picking up the pursuit would be impossible, as well as futile.

He turned on his heel on a pace, and as he saw the side of her leg, stopped in his tracks.

"You're bleeding."

"It's, er, it's nothing."

Sherlock spent a moment longer lingering on the injury, before taking a sharp intake of breath and raising his gaze to meet hers. "I should walk you back."

He approached her, hands behind his back, under the hole in the roof. Moonlight spilled in and graced his features delicately; now he had shadows for eyes and a halo balancing on his curls.

"It seems that the London night has turned a darker shade of danger for lone women."

Molly would have told him that he didn't have to give her a reason, she would have let him walk her off a cliff if it meant a little bit of proximity.

Knowing better, she didn't.


	2. Chapter 2

The morgue was at negative temperature (15 Celsius to be precise), and Molly could make out Sherlock's breathing pattern from the clouds it produced; slow and steady, calm and. John's was slightly shorter, although she suspected it had something to do with his height.

The three stood around the body of Lucy Townsend, a university student studying ancient history at UCL. Molly had passed her before, as she lived only moments away from the university's archaeology building. In life she had been golden-haired and brown eyed, a glittering jewel in the student body of the university. In death she was set to become  
something of a victim legend, forever made immortal by her own death. In retrospect, this was probably the worst thing to be famous for.

"Cause of death was internal bleeding – drowned in her own blood." Molly stated. John looked up at her in slight confusion. "Although the chances are very slim, she might have survived if she hadn't been stabbed so far up."

"Just like Caesar," Sherlock mumbled to himself, before looking up from the body to Molly. "How many stabbings was it exactly?"

"I can't be sure exactly, but from the deepness and width of it, it looks to be around ninety, hard actions, not just little ones."

"Must be strong, then. To be able to do that with such intensity in a matter of minutes in between the start of the attack and the time the body was found. Weapon?"

"Handheld blade, six inches long and double edged."

"Any fight in her?"

"Small signs of a struggle," She gently lifted the girl's left hand, and showed the duo Lucy's nails. "Her nails are broken. She fought."

His expression brightened. "Any skin cells underneath her nails?"

"No; the breakages were so severe that I wasn't able to get anything that could've helped."

Sherlock gave a small nod. "Toxicology report?"

"She wasn't drugged. She'd had a few drinks, but nothing major."

John's brow creased. "Then why didn't she scream?"

"From that we can guess that the first hit was to her lungs. Internal bleeding and shock could've caused her to pass out, if she had a weak constitution."

At this, the detective's brow creased. "But you said there were signs of a struggle. How could there have been if she passed out instantly? Was she a sleepwalker?" John shot him a warning look.

She chewed her lip for a moment. "I'm not sure. But the only logical explanation I can come up with from those two factors is that it was two separate attacks that occurred within the same day."

Sherlock looked away as a smirk twitched at the side of his mouth. "Interesting."

"Revenge, then?" John suggests.

"You know what I say about coincidences." He looks back to her. "Show me the rest of her." An order, not a question.

Molly pulled down the white sheet that Lucy lay under, revealing more of her sallow skin, and the purple and green bruises that littered it.

"Tell-tale signs of domestic abuse." He pointed them out with an index finger gloved in latex. "Bruises in places no one else would see them. They all seem in different stages of age, so the beatings were consistent."

"But… What did we chase, then?" Molly asked the obvious as Sherlock snapped the gloves off his hands. "That didn't look like an abusive boyfriend to me."

"What did it look like to you, Molly?" His gaze was suddenly as dark as his tone, and for a moment she was taken aback.

"Well, it, er…" She urged herself to come up with something clever. "A free-runner?"

Idiot!

"That crossed my mind, too." He replied. "It's the only thing true after eliminating the impossible, anyway."

"Oh… right."

A second of silence.

"Does the cold effect your psyche in any way, Molly?" Sherlock's baritone cut through the quiet, as Molly covered the body back up again.

"Sorry?" She didn't ask because she had misheard; rather because she thought that she had.

"The cold." He repeated.

"I don't think so. Why?"

"You're different to last night."  
Molly's cheeks heated, even in the frost of the morgue. "I-I was angry last night."

"Well," Sherlock and John made their way to the door. "I much prefer it. I should get you worked up more often."

Ignore the suggestiveness, ignore the suggesti-

"I don't think that's possible or wise, Sherlock."

"When have I ever been any of those things?" He grinned toothily. "Goodbye!" With this, he left.

Molly wasn't sure when she was going to regain feeling in her legs, but she hoped that it'd be soon.

 **JACK THE RIP-OFF?**

The headlines were sensational. Grabbing and snaring, they caught the eye of each passer-by.

 **GIRL, 19, STABBED TO DEATH ON WAY HOME  
Last night, Sloane Square was unwittingly catapulted into the stratosphere of murder legend. Lucy Townsend was found in the back-alley of the street dead after a night out with friends. CONTINUED ON PAGE 4 **

The Sun had found a way to blame immigrants, and The Telegraph had managed to somehow point the finger at Labour, regardless of the fact they weren't even in power.

It was strange, Molly thought, that even the media couldn't be trusted. Sure, they'd give you the truth, but they'd put their own spin on even the most trivial of things, manage to twist the truth and cut the context out of quotes until you were left with something that could only be respectfully described as 'news' in the satirical sense.

She had left the lab half an hour early to get the shopping done before sundown. Call her a coward, but as she passed the memorial for Lucy on the very spot she had died, all electric candles and cards and huge teddy bears and a bed of flowers that she'd never see, a chill ran through her.

Whatever she had seen, it had made it perfectly clear to her that there was something to be scared of. Knowing when to keep safe, when to play your cards close to your chest, was simply a matter of intelligence – not courage.

Molly locked the door behind her as soon as she got in. Toby ran at her and curled himself around her feet in a loving attempt to break her neck, and she couldn't help but laugh as he purred. She crouched down and stroked his silver fur lovingly, cooing 'Hello Tobes!' and various other endearments as he practically glowed with the attention.  
Brightened up now, in the cosy flat, she walked over to the kitchen and set the shopping bags down.

Her phone started to buzz in her pocket, and she rushed to answer it. Seeing that it was Tom that was ringing her, she got a faint feeling of wishing that she hadn't.

"Hello?"

"And one more thing,-"

Molly heaved a sigh. "For fuck's sake, Tom. Are you really still in a strop with me about last night?"

"All I'm saying, is that if you weren't so flirty with him, he wouldn't get the wrong idea!"

That's the entire problem, she wanted to say, that he had the wrong idea about her, but got the right one from her. If that made any sense in the slightest.

"I can't believe this." Toby hopped up onto a kitchen island stool, staring at her intently like a bestfriend watching her bestfriend argue with her boyfriend. Not far off. "I can't believe you're blaming me for him breaking into my flat!"

"You gave him a copy of your keys, and you never told me that you had."

"Oh, I am _terribly_ sorry," Molly wedges her phone between her shoulder and the side of her face as she starts to unpack the shopping. "But I didn't know you existed when I did that. Should I go over everything I ever did before I met you, in case you disapprove of them? Alright, when I was three, I frolicked naked in my neighbour's garden with their dog and their daughter. Please Tom, forgive me for being such a slut!"

"You know what I mean, Molly!" Toby meows loudly as she gets out the cat food, and cracks the tin open.

"Unfortunately, yeah." She walked over to where she kept his food bowl.

"What am I supposed to do, when I find out about all this emotional baggage?"

She paused. "Sherlock Holmes is not emotional baggage." No, more like an emotional shipping container. "He's a friend. You know he's weird, Tom, what do you expect?"

"How do I know you're not cheating on me with him?"

Molly couldn't contain a snort of laughter. "Trust me, you'd know."

Silence. "What's _that_ supposed to mean?!"

"Look, if you're that threatened by his raging testosterone levels around my girlish weakness, why not ask him yourself?" She smirked. "I've got his number, if you want to call him. His address, too, if you feel like hashing it out with fisticuffs at dawn like real men."

Another bout of silence, and Molly knew she had won. "M-maybe I will."

She had to pinch her nose to stop a giggle. "Alright, tough guy. Tom, I understand why you might be angry if it were any other bloke, but this is Sherlock we're talking about. He's either asexual or celibate, or both." Either that, or he just can't stand the thought of being with you. "He wouldn't touch me with a six-foot pole wearing a chastity belt and scuba diving goggles underneath a welding mask. I don't want to fight because you won't accept him for what he is."

"I just…" A sigh. Melodramatic prick. "Still, you just don't know what he's capable of. You're giving him too much credit."

"You're not giving him enough. Trust me, he's golden. Or, at least…" Molly's voice trailed off, as she came to the epiphany that she didn't really know Sherlock that well at all. Sure, she knew what he did for a living, what he liked to talk about (nothing – silence was a preference), and how he liked his tea and coffee, but what school he went to? His actual thoughts and feelings? What went on in that beautiful brain of his? Could she even begin to comprehend what it did to him, even if he told her? She knew that people like him weren't made for people like her, though. They weren't made for human consumption to begin with.

"Molly? Still there?"

She blinked, zoning back in. "Er, yeah, sorry."

"Do you want me to come over tonight? Must be feeling at least a little shaken up after last night."

That was true; she didn't even feel safe in her own home after being broken into and having a murder happen right under her nose all in one night. It would probably have left anyone else paralysed in their own wardrobe with fear.

"I'm a big girl, Tom. But thanks, anyway." At least he was nice. Sherlock would never have thought about even attempting to comfort her.

"Alright. I'll see you later, then. Love you."

"Love you too, bye." Molly felt like a horrible person as she ended the call and set her phone down. She paused for a moment, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath. What was she doing with Tom? Leading him on, at least. Molly knew she was being cruel – worse than that, she was being worse than Sherlock. At least he had made it clear from the start that  
he wasn't interested in her. What she was doing to Tom was pure evil.

"Frolicking naked in your neighbour's garden? Molly Hooper, I am scandalized."

Molly practically shot through the roof, a high-pitched cry of surprise escaping her.

Sherlock stood by the bathroom door, a bemused look on his face.

"You bastard!"

He laughed as she tried to calm herself.

"What do you think you're doing here? After I explicitly told you to-"

"I know, I know." He entered the kitchen and sat on the stool next to Toby. The cat hissed at him, and they briefly exchanged glares. "Getting you into trouble with your boyfriend, or whatever."

"Not 'or whatever'. And it's not just him that you're annoying."

"Annoying him? I'm threatening to him, not _pesky_. Learn the difference."

She sighed, defeated. "Why are you here?"

"I brought you a gift." Sherlock produced a couple of strange looking mechanisms from his pocket. "They're for your windows. I got in far too easily last night."

"You'd make a very thoughtful burglar, Sherlock."

He chuckled for a moment, but then turned serious. "It wasn't a revenge killing, Molly."

She paused at the sudden turn of conversation. "What was it, then?"

"Opportunistic. All serial killers are."

"What?"

"This is the first in a pattern, I'm certain. Murder is nothing like sex."

Molly was slightly flustered by the comparison. "If- if that's a surprise to you, you've probably been doing it wrong."

"I mean; immediately after copulation, people are usually tired, need to sleep it off. But a murderer, one that's been resisting the temptation for their entire life? It gives them a euphoric high, they come alive with fulfilled bloodlust." He snaps out of the monologue, looking to her. "But it only comes back – and I assure you that this case is no exception – stronger, every night. It's an addiction, and they're intoxicated by the violence."

He spoke as if he knew this first-hand, as if he had experienced temptation in its strongest form. Then, Molly realised, he had. He was a drug addict, after all, what did she expect?

"It's just like Oscar Wilde said." He cocked his head. "The only way to get rid of a temptation is to yield to it."

Sherlock didn't respond for a few seconds, just kept her locked in his gaze, blank, or perhaps it only seemed that way because there was such a mix of different emotions, that it came out a muddled mess of them. Like when you mix too many paints together, and instead of the wonderful colour you envisioned, it comes out as a dreary brown.

He blinked and looked away. "Yes." He cleared his throat. "Yes, precisely." Sherlock stumbled in his words and in his step as he got off the stool, as if suddenly drunk.

Disappointment hit her without warning. What had she expected, though? For him to never leave? She watched him go to the door with a sinking heart.

Then, he stopped, and turned back round to her. "Actually, my intentions on coming here weren't as innocent as I made them out to be."

Her heart leapt. "Oh?"

"I want you, Molly."

Her brain lost signal, and electricity replaced her blood.

"As bait."

Her expression faltered and she blushed uncontrollably, feeling moronic.

"Bait? Y-you want me as bait for…"

"For the serial killer, yes."

She hated the way she loved him. "You're giving me mixed messages, I'll admit. Do you want me dead, or alive?"

"The latter would be preferable."

"You have a good way of showing it."

"Molly, please." Sherlock had those puppy eyes on, his face falsely impassioned with a desperate plea.

Yes, yes, yes! "No."

"You'll be in no danger, I promise."

"Oh, absolutely none, apart from the bloodthirsty killer that you just described to me!"

"Maybe I was being a _little_ dramatic-"

"Fine. Fine. Y'know what? Fine. But if I die, I'm blaming you. It'll be all your fault, and don't think for a second that you'll be invited to my funeral." She grumbled.

"You obviously don't know me well enough if you think I'd ever let any harm come to my favourite pathologist."

"There's no need to charm me now, Sherlock; you've already gotten your way."

His smile fell for a moment at this, as she went to put her shoes on.

* * *

 **Thanks for reading! I'd love to know your thoughts, if you have time, leaving a review would be much appreciated :)**


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